


i want to start brand new

by orphan_account



Series: tomorrow they'll see what we are [9]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: (lots of it), (may add more later just let me know), Crying, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 22:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12045249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jack is as far from Okay as New York City is from England.Crutchie just doesn't realize how lethal that distance can be until it's nearly jumped— both figuratively and literally.





	i want to start brand new

It had been a long two months for all of them. The beginning of fall was usually a pretty fine time for newboys, what with the temperature starting to drop to a more comfortable level without the influx of storms and harsh weather that would arrive soon enough with late fall and then winter. All things said, as they approached mid-October, Crutchie _should_ have been feeling nothing but optimistic about the future (or at least, as optimistic as could be reasonably expected of a crippled newsboy at the turn of the century).

Instead, he found himself feeling more and more concerned.

The events of summer's end had, he thought, left their marks on everyone. Some folks, himself included, were understandably less affected than others — he hadn't been involved in any part of the escape operation, and neither had a number of the other boys. And even some of those that had seemed to be managing the chaotic addition to their respective lives quite well. Specs was, to all appearances, just as level-headed and relatively unruffled as he always _had_  been (or at least, had been as long as Crutchie had known him), and Finch seemed nothing but delighted at having played a part in what was essentially a group jailbreak operation. So, in truth, not everyone was really doing _all_ that much worse than usual. Crutchie wasn't worried about _them_ — he was sure they could take care of themselves.

It was the others that concerned him. 

Race still often had trouble carrying a conversation, something he'd never struggled with before his time in the Refuge (nearly a _goddamn month_ , Crutchie still hadn't quite forgiven himself for not somehow doing _better_ ) — some days he couldn't speak aloud at all, and had taken to using sign language instead. Some days his words would run on and on, stumbling over themselves like a waterfall that he couldn't seem to stem even if he wanted to. On occasion, he'd slip in and out of languages, switching to Italian and occasionally Gaelic (Crutchie hadn't even known Race _spoke_ Gaelic before, else he would have tried to brush up what little he remembered for a conversation or two) without seeming to even _realize_ he'd shifted out of English until someone pointed it out to him. He flinched at sudden movements, even worse than he had before, and it wasn't as though Crutchie hadn't noticed the way he made sure to keep a stolen knife on him at all times.

There were others, too, that Crutchie noticed — Race's Brooklyn friends, mostly, who visited much more often now despite the ever-present (and still somewhat unexplained) tension between their two boroughs. Spot, in particular, appeared to have become almost _protective_ — though, if Crutchie were to point it out, he'd surely snap and deny it. He seemed to chaperone visits between the boroughs, and once or twice Crutchie saw him patrolling the streets in the evening to ensure that all of his newsies were rounded up and sent on their way back to the Brooklyn Lodging House. (It didn't seem like too bad an idea, but no-one in Manhattan was really equipped to do the same there).

But the last (and most) worrisome individual was, of course, Jack. Because who _else_ could it be?

Jack hadn't allowed himself to take more than two days to recover from his own time in the Refuge, and on the streets he'd perfected the art of affecting normalcy. The customers were fooled, the younger boys were fooled, the other boroughs didn't see anything different, and life seemed to have regained its balance— except Jack couldn't fool _all_ of them. Those who had known him longest, who knew his tricks and tells, they saw through the mask. And they _worried_.

It wasn't just Crutchie, either. Race, awakened to another realm of dark places and bad thoughts that _none_ of them had wanted him to see, could tell just as instinctively as Crutchie that Jack was as far from Okay as New York was from _England_. Specs, having known Jack longer than any other newsie still at the Lodging House or even in Manhattan, could pick out tells even with his glasses broken and his ears plugged. Since _Specs_ was worried, _Romeo_ — ever at his side— worried too, his natural empathy coming to his aid in a situation where he probably wished it _wouldn't_. Those were the few Crutchie was sure of, though he had his suspicions about others (Albert and Race had been spending a _lot_ of time together, chatting in sign language, and if Albert learned to pick up on Race's tells then he could definitely spot Jack's), and between them they kept eyes on Jack, and watched, and worried.

The first full week after his return to the streets, Jack seemed alright. He still affected normalcy to hide the sag of his shoulders and the shadows under his eyes, but he was managing about as well as ever, and Crutchie dared to allow himself not to worry. Or, at least, to worry less, because maybe things were going to be alright after all.

He allowed himself to chuckle when, upon pulling himself up the fire escape to the Penthouse, he was greeted by the sight of a clearly-drunk Jack Kelly concentrating furiously on a sheet of paper as he sketched with the zeal and abandon of a madman— or, perhaps, an artist. Jack's cap was resting on his head at a rakish, lopsided angle, and when he looked up at Crutchie, a brilliant grin bloomed across his face not unlike the one Crutchie remembered from their very first meeting. He hadn't seen Jack smile like that in a while, and certainly not since summer. "Well, lookit that! It's— it's the _sun_ at _night_! Ain't that _somethin'_ , huh?"

"You'se a real charmer, Jack." Stumping his way across the rooftop, Crutchie settled himself into a sitting position beside Jack, peering down at the paper curiously— Jack's art skills really were something, and it was always awe-inspiring to see what his friend would create next. "Whatcha working on tonight?" 

Jack peered down at the paper, brows furrowed in confusion as the tip of his tongue poked out between his teeth. "Ain't never had the sun fancyin' my scribbles b'fore. Sun's probably seen Santa Fe b'fore, anyhow — _ain't you_?" He looked up at Crutchie suddenly, blue eyes wide and pupils dark, and the younger boy was struck with the realization that Jack wasn't just playing with him— his friend genuinely _didn't_ recognize him. How drunk was he, to not even be able to put a name to Crutchie's face when they'd been all but inseparable since he'd saved Crutchie from the streets five years ago? Maybe he should have been more worried— but no, Jack was back to smiling and chattering half-focused nonsense at him — well, at the sun, who somehow happened to be in the form of a teenage boy that night (don't ask Crutchie, he didn't know how drunk folks' minds worked) — about this city called Santa Fe. The name was vaguely recognizable — there might have been an article about it at some point that week — and he found himself leaning in to hear more as Jack regaled him with fantasies about a town they'd never seen (and probably never would).

"—an' you should see the _air_! Santa— Santa Fe ain't no _stinkhole_ like New York, fo' _sure_! It's got— got _clean_ air, there, it's all clean an' _pretty_ an' you'se can see f-for _miles_! They'se— they'se got _green_ in Santa Fe, whole lots of it!"

Crutchie allowed himself to smile indulgently at his animated friend. "We's got green here too, Jacky. Ain't you been down to Central Park before? We's got loads of green there, an' sheep too."

" _Sheep_? Woooah." The concept seemed to amaze Jack, because he stared at Crutchie with a slack jaw for a few moments before looking up at the sky in pure amazement. "We's got _sheep_ in New York. Ain't that _somethin'_ , huh? We's— we's got _sheep_. In _New York_. But— but I bet they'se got _even more'n_ we got, they'se— they'se got _tons_ of sheep in Santa Fe, I _betcha_." A silly grin crept across his cheeks. "We's got sheep in _New York_ , ain't that— ain't that a _riot_ , huh?"

He turned to beam at Crutchie, and if you'd asked him to speak at that moment, he would have sworn he was struck dumb. At that moment, meeting Jack's too-bright gaze and too-wide grin, it finally hit Crutchie just _how damn much_ he loved Jack Kelly. Not necessarily a quantifiable love, and certainly not the sort ready to be categorized or further defined in one way or another, but— but, sitting there on the rooftop, he knew without a doubt that wherever Jack went, he would follow.

Perhaps it was the shock of this knowledge that made Crutchie lose focus on the world around him for a few moments too many (at least, he _hoped_ it was, because he wasn't sure he could entirely forgive himself otherwise). A few crucial moments when he _should_ have listened closer, kept his eyes solidly on his friend instead of letting his mind wander, should have _known better_ than to let his attention stray when Jack was drunk because as funny as drunk people were, they were also twice as uninhibited and that meant— _that meant—_

That meant he only noticed Jack was standing on the edge of the roof when the older boy took a shaky step off _and started to fall_. 

"Shit, _Jack_!"

Crutchie lunged forward, crutch abandoned with Jack's drawing as he all but dove over the edge, hand outstretched and grasping desperately into the cool air. For a few heart-stopping seconds, he thought he'd _missed_ , and would hear the sickening thud of a body hitting the ground any moment— but no, his hand closed around something warm and solid and he held tight with all the strength he could muster. He'd fallen half-off himself, only one arm and his bad leg keeping him anchored (not all that firmly, but better than _nothing_ ) to the roof, and he didn't dare open his eyes. If he saw how far they were from the ground and how close he was to falling, Crutchie suspected he might just sick up, and he didn't really want to vomit on Jack right now.

Blessedly, he'd never been a particularly sweaty person (beyond his relatively frequent illnesses and fevers, just one of the _many_ reasons Crutchie disliked winter), so he managed to maintain a pretty firm grip on Jack's arm as he forced his eyes open (quelling the nausea that accompanied the sight) and tried to figure out how to get the two of them back to safety. If it had been his good leg up on the roof, he might have been able to haul Jack up himself — even better if he'd had _both_ his arms free — but as it was, with one arm and his good leg dangling in the open air, Crutchie found himself running low on options. The one good thing about the situation was that Jack seemed content to hang placidly from Crutchie's grip, too many stories above the city streets, and didn't seem to be interested in making their predicament any _more_ difficult.

Unfortunately, that good thing was vastly outweighed by the fact that Crutchie only had one hand on Jack, no way to pull himself back up, and a fall from this height would most likely kill them. "Hey— Hey, Specs, Romeo, Racer, Albie! Uh— shit, _shit_ , who's on the top levels? Uh, Buttons, Finch— c'mon, _anybody_! We's really gonna need some— _fuck_ ," His leg jarred a bit and he felt himself slip just a little further off the edge, fingers scrabbling to find a solid purchase. Shoulders beginning to ache in earnest, he tried calling out again— and _again—_ but to no avail. Either nobody could hear, or they'd all already gone to bed. He'd have to take more drastic action.

" _Jack—_ Jacky, can you'se hear me?"

Below him, Jack looked up with bright eyes. "Oh, _hiya_ , Charlie! How's you doing? Lookit this, I'm _flyin'_! I'm flyin' all the way to _Santa Fe_!" 

No. No no _no_. Crutchie did _not_ have the time to deal with this. "Jacky, _listen_ , I needs you to swing towards the building real slow— _real_ slow, else I'll drop and we's _both_ roadkill down there. If you'se can find something to grab onto, I might be able to get us back up." For an achingly long minute, Jack looked at him as though he didn't quite understand what was being asked, and Crutchie bit back a desperate, terrified sob as he felt himself shift further off the roof. "Jacky, _please_ , I'se _begging_ you."

Slowly, the silly grin on Jack's face melted into a heart-wrenchingly devastated expression as he seemed to finally take in the reality of the situation they were in. He tilted his head around, looking down at the street below them and then at the wall. "Right— _right_. Hang on." He swung slowly, shifting his weight back and forth as carefully as possible and wincing when Crutchie couldn't contain a sob of pain. "D'you want me to— to let go?"

" _No_ , just— uh, just hold on with your other hand, yeah? So's I can pull my leg back up an' use both hands for you."

"Oh— oh, yeah, okay." Expression now one of fierce concentration, Jack inched himself ever closer to the wall, until he could finally reach out with one hand and grab onto one of the protruding bricks. He swung his legs up next, scrabbling for footholds (at one point, the force of the motion _almost_ pulled Crutchie off the roof in full, and he bit down _hard_ on his tongue to keep from screaming), until finally he seemed to have found a somewhat stable position. Wavering ever so slightly from the alcohol and the wind, he craned his neck up and called, "I'm solid! You'se doing okay up there?" 

The strain on his shoulder had lessened, and Crutchie inched himself backwards at what felt like an excruciatingly slow pace. Once he'd managed to pull his other leg back onto the roof, he finally let out the breath he'd been holding. "Yeah, I'se good. Give me a mo'—" Able to move a little more freely, he shifted himself sideways until he was laying on his stomach, legs (hopefully) keeping him anchored and just the top half of his torso hanging over the edge. "—alright. Jacky, I'se going to start pulling you up now, yeah? Once you'se high enough, grab my other hand. One, two, _three—_ "

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he wondered if this was what mountain-climbing was like. Except, presumably, with more ropes and equipment, and less threat of imminent death (less alcohol, too, probably). Step by step, feeling as though his arms might pull right out of their sockets, he and Jack inched closer and closer to safety. It felt like hours, though was more likely just minutes, but eventually the only things over the edge were his arms and shoulders, and he could reach out and grab Jack's other hand and haul him bodily backwards. Hands, arms, torso and legs came over the edge and collapsed onto him, both of them breathing heavily and trembling. Crutchie thought he might be crying. He thought Jack might be too.

For a few moments, they just laid like that — Crutchie sprawled backwards onto the roof, Jack splayed across him with one foot still hanging over the edge, hands holding together desperately as though they might still fall if either of them let go. Even though they were out of danger, Crutchie felt like he couldn't _breathe_ , because this couldn't have been what he thought it was, there was no way, he couldn't— _Jack couldn't—_  

A sob echoed noisily in the still air, and Jack seemed to crumple against him, face pressing into Crutchie's shoulder and hands curling in to grasp handfuls of Crutchie's vest like a lifeline. It wasn't pretty, or quiet — Jack's weeping was loud, and messy, and sent violent tremors through his back with every desperate gasp and sob — and Crutchie wrapped his own arms around his friend's shoulders instinctively. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, he rolled the two of them sideways so they were laying side-by-side instead of stacked vertically and pulled Jack closer, refusing to give any voice to the tears escaping ceaselessly down his own cheeks. Distantly, as though through a sort of disoriented fuzz, he heard his own voice whispering meaningless reassurances, slipping back into Gaelic and into the gentle soothing tones his mother had used when he was very small. Around them, the night was silent and still, all the summer nightlife having either died off or moved on to warmer climates. A chill in the air spoke of colder times to come, and at the very edge of Crutchie's vision, a lone lightning bug flew drowsily past the rooftops like a tiny star.

He watched the bug, blinking yellow against the dark of the night, for what felt like _ages_. The sight mesmerized him even as comforting platitudes and soothing nothings continued to tumble from his lips, the two things seeming to form a rhythm of sorts that eventually came to line up with his own heartbeat as it finally began to slow from the rapid thrum that had pulsed in his ears from the moment Jack fell ( _stepped off_ ). His own tears slowly dried, leaving tacky tracks of salt cutting through the dirt on his cheeks, and he pushed himself (and Jack, still curled up against his chest, though weeping more softly now) into a sitting position with a wince. "Jack— _Jacky_ , you with me?"

At first, there was no response, and Crutchie reigned in the instinct to panic (Jack was literally _right there in his lap_ , there was no need to worry when he could feel every breath he took), instead counting to five in his head and trying again. "Jacky, can you'se look up at me? I'se not mad, I just wanna talk to you." He shifted one arm to rest on Jack's shoulder, instead of wrapping around his back. "Can we's do that? Is that okay?"

Nodding mutely, Jack pulled back far enough to rub the back of a hand angrily across his damp, red-rimmed eyes. The effusive glow that he'd been inhabiting thanks to the alcohol had effectively vanished, leaving the head of Manhattan's newsies looking smaller than life and almost eerily washed-out. The fall ( _was it really a fall_ ) seemed to have sobered him up, which of course brought back all of the worries and woes of a sober mind that had likely been _why_ Jack was drinking in the first place.

Crutchie didn't mention that. He wasn't about to make an issue of the drinking — Jack was hardly the first to do it, and it was far from the issue at hand. "Jacky, can you'se tell me why you— _why_ you'se was tryin' to fly to Santa Fe?"

Please let him just mean the city. Please let it be just the city. Please _oh please_ , let this have just been the foolish actions of a drunk and not— _and not—_

"I was—" Jack's voice cracked, and the sound was a stone falling in the pit of Crutchie's stomach. "—I'se just gotta get _out_. It's— it's supposed to be _better_ , there. I'se just wanted— wanted to _l-leave_ , you know? Go— go somewhere better'n these stinkin' streets and these stupid pennies an'— _an' the goddamned Refuge—_ " 

"Oh, _Jacky._ " There were more tears rolling down his friend's cheeks, and Crutchie leaned forward to wipe them away with his thumbs, letting his hands caress Jack's cheeks as gently as he could manage.

Around them, the sky was dark and the air was cool, and Jack's hands were warm where they rested on Crutchie's thighs. " _An'—_ an' Red's _dead_ , Crutchie. I couldn'ta— I couldn't _save_ him, you know? I shoulda— shoulda _done_ something, instead'a just lettin' him— _lettin' him—_ "

"Jacky, _shh_ , it's okay, you couldnt'a done more'n you _did—_ "

"And _Race_! He's— he's _broken_ , now!" Jack's voice climbed to a wail, echoing mournfully in the still air. "H-he's broken up all into _pieces_ , an' it's— it's all my _fault_ , innit? I— I broke my word, an' Race ran away be-because I broke my word, an' then he was in the Refuge an' in the _Boxes_ an' the  _Room_ an' I didn't— _I couldn't—_ I _failed_ him, Crutchie! Now he's broken, _because of me—_ "

" _No_ , no no no, Jacky, _it's not your fault—_ "

"—an' I'se just— just a big fat _mess_ for all of you'se, ain't I? I'se no use here, you'se all just— just fine without me, an' I'se just gonna keep _hurtin'_ folks, an' _none of the boys needs me anyways—_ "

" _I need you, Jack_!"

Struck momentarily speechless, Jack stared at Crutchie with wide eyes, the blue still somewhat swallowed up by the black emptiness of his pupils (an effect of both the outside darkness and the alcohol still in his blood). Crutchie could _feel_ himself trembling, though from anger or fear he wasn't sure — maybe a combination of both? Regardless of the reason, his hands were shaking badly enough that he pulled them away from Jack's cheeks in order to grab fistfuls of his trousers, as though that might help still the motion. It didn't. _Why had he thought it would?_ The silence around them seemed suffocating, somehow, and when Jack failed to continue his rant of ( _entirely undeserved_ ) self-loathing, Crutchie found himself speaking up once more through a tight throat. "I needs you here, we _all_ does."

" _Crutch—_ "

"Jack, if it hadn'ta been for you, I woulda _died_ on the streets!" That shut up the token protest alright, and Jack's hands moved up his legs until they were covering Crutchie's own, a shaky warmth slowly reminding him to loosen his grip. "You can't honestly think anyone else woulda given th' time of day to a pathetic, orphaned _crip_ beggin' on the curb, you'se smarter'n that. But you'se— you saved my damn _life_ , Jacky. You'se saved mine, you'se saved Race's— don't you give me that look, you'se the reason we could bust him outta the Refuge and _you knows it—_ you made sure Romeo had food when his dad forgot 'im, you got Elmer away from his mom and rescued Albie from the river when them fellas tossed him in! So don't you even _dare—_ don't you dare say you ain't _needed_ here, Jack Kelly!"

Past Jack's shoulder, the lone lightning bug blinked forlornly in the night, searching in solitude for friends and family that were long dead by now (bugs didn't live that long, after all). The shaking had migrated to Crutchie's shoulders, and he felt something warm trailing down the bridge of his nose and blurring his vision. He was crying again. On top of his hands, Jack's were still trembling and alternated between loose-fingered and grasping, and he forced himself to uncurl his fingers so he could twine them with Jack's instead. "Look, I— I _know_ things is rough. We's got a rough lot in life, and that means we's gonna have lotsa hard times like now, but we _can't give up._ "

"We— _what_?" 

Furiously scrubbing away the tears that were threatening to drip awkwardly from the tip of his nose, Crutchie pulled his eyes up to meet Jack's and tugged his torso forward, pressing their foreheads together. "If we gives up, we's just showing the world that it's won. We's showing all of them— Snyder and his goons, them cops and the Delanceys, _all_ them folks what who's tried to kick us down— we give up, we's lettin' them win. _Are you gonna let them win, Jacky_?"

" _I—_ " 

" _No_." He pulled his hands away so he could return them to Jack's cheeks, effectively preventing his friend from looking away. "Look at me, Jacky. You'se better'n them, and you'se gonna stand back up and let them know it. And when you'se feelin' like things are real rough— _Jacky, look at me_. When you'se feelin' down, _you are not going to give up_. You'se going to talk to someone— talk to _me_ , talk to _Specs_ , talk to any of the boys, _I don't care_ — and we's gonna be here for you when you needs us. I'se here, whenever you needs me." Jack's eyes were squeezed shut, silent tears leaking resolutely from beneath them, and Crutchie closed his own as well. "I'se here, Jacky. I'se got you."

 

* * *

 

_He didn't remember in the morning, of course._

_Crutchie had told Specs, who had told Romeo, and they'd agreed to keep an eye on Jack. He didn't tell Race, but he was pretty sure Race knew anyways (and if Race knew, that meant Albert and his Brooklyn friends likely knew too). Maybe it was just a one-time thing— at least, Crutchie sure hoped so. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to live with Jack trying to jump off of any more rooftops._

_The Santa Fe talk still remained. Maybe he was just talking about the town way out West. Maybe it really was green, and lovely, and full of buildings made of clay, and maybe the moon was twice as bright out there. (Maybe Jack just didn't realize he wasn't really talking about any place out West at all, like some sort of internal self-protection mechanism set in place to stop him from fully remembering what had happened that night)._

_Crutchie didn't let him sleep alone on the Penthouse anymore._

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> Don't worry, I'm still working on 'don't you know' as well, but I just had to take a break (ch 3 is kinda stumping me) to bust this out. For those familiar with my other newsies fics, this is following the events of 'jump or you're screwed', and is referenced in 'there's a story behind the story'.
> 
> Sorry the ending is so abrupt — if I have the energy, I may rewrite it more expansively, but I just ran out of steam for now.
> 
> Please comment!! I love hearing what y'all think of it! (Also please let me know if you think there are any tags I ought to add!!)
> 
> <3


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